


Home Safe

by saveupyourhopes



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Grind Fucking, Grinding, Heterosexual Sex, I don't speak it, Javi calling people 'kid', Oral Sex, Season 3 Javi, Unprotected Sex, oral sex (female receiving), oral sex (male receiving), sorry for the possibly bad Spanish, terms of endearment, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22525192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveupyourhopes/pseuds/saveupyourhopes
Relationships: Javier Peña/Original Character(s), Javier Peña/Original Female Character(s), Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Comments: 16
Kudos: 211





	Home Safe

When shit hits the fan, it’s always best to be standing outside.

Not inside, mouth open with your face beside the blades.

But that’s where you were standing on the balmy night of April 18th, 1995—Tuesday, a goddamn Tuesday—while some cartel goons dipped their toes into the water in the heart of New York City. A student at NYU, you’d thought for sure cartel business wouldn’t make it into your back yard. Not this close. 

It would've terrified you, how near they’d really gotten without tipping you off. You couldn’t have known, not really. It was a typical night: your last class of the day had finished, and you were headed to your apartment on campus, not stopping for anything but the display of treats in the bakery window behind the university building. While you were deciding between an éclair, a bear claw, a donut, or all three, there were wanted criminals loading tankards of chlorine gas into a 17’ equipment truck at the end of the street.

You should’ve run. You should’ve walked in the opposite direction, at least. But none of it occurred to you—nothing occurred to you but the soft sound of the flip-sign on the bakery door being spun to announce: CLOSED.

You walked, then, not wanting to be a bother. You pulled your bag a little closer to your side because it was cold and because it was dark, not because any one of the rough-handed men at the truck down the street could’ve snatched it, or you, and tossed you in the back alongside a tank of chlorine gas.

And you must have had all the luck in the world, then, because you made it home safely.

The knock at your door came on a Thursday—the 20th. You had a few friends, but none who would randomly appear at your door. You always called each other, first. Your schedules almost never meshed, after all. A look through the eyelet in the door revealed a dark-haired man in an oxblood button-down. He was wearing sunglasses and stood back from the door with his hands on his hips and a holster strapped around his left shoulder, a firearm at his ribcage.

Your heart had been speeding from the moment the knock came at the door, and now there was no calming your anxiety. You stood back, wringing your hands, and were considering ignoring it when a second knock came, harder, more insistent than the first.

“Okay!” you called, plaintively. Your mind was made up—open the door, confront the stranger. Your hand hesitated over the knob, all the same, until a third knock began at the door. You yanked it open, staring up at a man sliding off his aviators and hanging them in the topmost button of his shirt—the first two were undone, showing a stretch of tanned clavicle.

Then he was shoving a badge in your face and stepping over the threshold of your apartment door.

“DEA. Javier Peña,” he said, without looking at you. Immediately, he was casing around your apartment. You followed behind him like a puppy, tucking your hair behind your ears. All your nerves were gone, replaced by a feeling of stubbornness—this guy thought he could just waltz into your apartment because he had a badge?

“What’re you doing here?” you asked him, watching helplessly as he rummaged through a stack of your books.

“You’re leaving. I need you to pack up your things. Essentials,” he said, hands on his hips again.

You looked him over. There was no way you could leave now—you were well-adjusted to this place, the commute was perfect, and you had school. “What do you mean, I’m leaving?” you asked him, incredulous.

“It’s not safe for you to be here.”

“Why isn’t it safe? I live here. There’s security on the grounds at all hours.”

“Tuesday night, the 18th, you encountered an operation of cartel affiliates.”

“I didn’t encounter anyone. I was on my way home from class, and—”

“They encountered you, then. My intel says they want you dead. You’re lucky they didn’t take a shot right then—you do that often? Just walk around in the middle of the night, alone?”

He was looking at you, then—really looking. You blinked. Mister DEA, Javier Peña, was dark-eyed and dark-haired and luscious. The weight of the aviators on the top button of his shirt tugged it down into a V over the top of his chest. He was tanned, brown-skinned everywhere, even there. Looking at him sucked the moisture out of your mouth and you felt no small amount of shame for being told you were wanted by cartel guys and being unable to process it because of the sight of the man before you.

“I…” you began, wringing your fingers, not looking at the agent. “The university is so close to my apartment, I usually just walk. It’s always safe here. This is—we have one of the lowest crime rates in the state, so…”

“Yeah. Well, you’re about to see a jump on the charts, kid.”

Kid? 

But that’s been six months ago, now. 

Agent Peña, for all his gruff attitude, was accommodating and was the first to really put in the effort to help you get settled. The DEA wanted to keep you in an extended stay room, but Peña had insisted on something more like home. Something safer. A motel room in New York felt seedy and it didn’t take a genius to realize that you weren’t used to the environment.

You hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in your mouth, but your family had worked hard to make sure you weren’t exposed to harm or bad crowds, and they’d worked hard to make sure you had a good shot at making it to college. And you did. You were proud of that, and though you weren’t too proud to do what had to be done if it meant a better life for you, you were a little too stubborn to let the DEA force you into some motel in the city just because they wanted to keep a drug cartel from using you as leverage.

Still, you were able to stomach two weeks of it before Agent Peña knocked on your door again and asked you—gentler, this time—to come with him.

You didn’t have much. You had enough of a wardrobe to fill a suitcase, and enough toiletries and makeup to fill a medium attaché. Though he mostly got in the way, you humored his delicate attempts to help you pack up for the second time this month. He held your beloved potted succulent in one big hand and your suitcase in the other as he held the motel door for you and led you out to his Blazer.

You’d been surprised to find out that your next “home” was going to be the open unit next to Peña’s apartment. He pulled into the open space in front of his door and came around to let you out and help you unload your things. He handed you the door key, and that was that.

Six months ago. 

Six months of waiting. Six months of worrying. Six months of watching the DEA diffuse the situation in New York the best they could.

You didn’t make any demands. It surprised even you that you let it all happen without much argument at all. You didn’t ask for a thing until your grades started to slip in the first month, and then you stopped Javier to tell him that you wouldn’t continue doing this if you were going to be forced to give up your education. It had taken time, but he’d pulled the right strings, and eventually, you were having your classes in the comfort of your own snug little living room, sitting across from slightly confused instructors almost every day.

It was supposed to be perfect. You were safe. You were comfortable. You didn’t have to work. The apartment was nice. Your friends all thought you were on some fancy cruise, so you were lonely, but you figured (though, at first, you weren’t sure) you could bother Agent Peña for company if you really got desperate.

Between classes, television, meals, and trying to open your balcony door for fresh air without worrying the disguised agents below that you were about to take a bullet to the head, you had to find something productive to do. You were going insane.

It started with a plea for a grocery trip. The DEA was able to cut loose someone from intel long enough to accompany you to the grocery store. You used government money to pay for a real kitchenful of groceries and flounced out of the supermarket, happy to let the intel guy carry most of the bags for you.

You made dinner and dessert and portioned out the meal into containers for the week, and one for Agent Peña next door. Each Friday night, you took over a new dish and a new dessert, each one different from the last.

The first evening you’d been met with a deeply furrowed brow of confusion, but he’d taken the food with a modest thank-you. You were sure it was because he wasn’t used to it, having home-cooked food brought to his door, and not because he wasn’t thankful for it. He must have been, because he brought the containers back empty and washed, and each time, your pride took a little boost.

It took two months of Fridays—and you hadn’t planned it, anyway—for Peña to make his way over to your door Saturday evening with his clean dishes in hand. He gave the door a timid knock and you opened it to find him with his shirt tucked in and his hair combed. You’d invited him in and he’d stayed for dinner—he even stayed for a drink after that. Agent Peña wasn’t bad for conversation; he was even funny in his own dry way. He lingered in the doorway on his way out, said a quiet goodnight, and left.

It became a routine.

Every Saturday evening Peña came to your door under pretense of returning the dishes you’d leant him, and you invited him in with a smile. He let the stress of his 24/7 job roll off his shoulders for a couple hours and he looked good when he relaxed, leaning across your dining nook table to say something clever, watching your expression for laughter. It was soft. You both were just this side of desperate for the company. It was friendly and chaste.

It was an innocuous Saturday in October, cool and crisp outside, when Peña, seated across from you at your dining nook table, having just finished laughing at something you’d said—something ridiculous, you could be sure of that—reached across the table to delicately take your hand into his. His callused thumb smoothed its way across your soft knuckles. You looked up from your hands in time to catch him looking at you, too, and then you eased your hand away. Your heart was racing. You could feel the heat in your cheeks, the back of your neck.

“I think it’s time for bed,” you’d said to him.

“It’s not even nine,” he’d gently argued.

He didn’t offer much resistance. You stood with him in the doorway as he made to leave and were still standing there when he was gone, watching him walk away.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to you when you found yourself slamming the door shut and disappearing into your bedroom. Nestled deep into your blankets, with a hand tucked discreetly into your panties, you buried your face in the crook of your arm and panted out your orgasm, terrified that he would hear.

It’s Halloween—another fucking Tuesday—when Agent Peña comes to your door again. He’d skipped last Saturday and this is not the evening you usually spend together. Honestly, it’s not even the right hour. It’s past eight and you’re sitting in your bed in a white t-shirt and red track shorts, watching The X-Files when the knock at the door makes you jump.

You stare through the doorway, unclutching your blankets from your chest. You’re not afraid of the paranormal, or aliens, or urban legends, but something about the show always gets you tense. Not just that, but you’re supposed to be in hiding from a drug cartel who would like to kidnap you for leverage. But there are men outside your door at all hours, you remind yourself. You hadn’t heard gunshots. You hadn’t heard even a hint of an altercation out there. 

You slide out of bed and pad on quiet sock-feet to the door, looking through the eyelet to see Agent Peña standing on the other side. Hands on his hips, he looks disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through his hair over and over again. The top buttons of his shirt are undone and visible through the open space of his leather jacket.

You hesitate, maybe waiting to see if he’d leave after a few minutes of no response. Maybe he’ll think you’re sleeping or showering. He doesn’t leave, but he shifts his weight on his feet, turning his shoulder to the door and looking out over the street with his arms folded.

He’s not going away.

Peña starts when you yank the door open, turning to face you. He unfolds his arms and wipes his hands on his jeans. Neither of you say a word for a few moments, and then you bite the bullet.

“Agent Peña,” you greet, half-hidden behind the door. You catch his gaze dropping and hide your exposed bare leg and sock foot behind the door, too. “It’s kind of late,” you say.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry, I just,” he pauses, leaves the apology open-ended.

You’re quiet for what feels like a long stretch of minutes. He looks unsure of himself, this clever, cocksure agent who’d invited himself to touch your hand just so tenderly. Maybe he’d thought something would come of it. Maybe he hadn’t thought anything. 

“It’s alright,” you finally say, pressing your cheek against the edge of the door. “You really don’t have to—do this. Apologize, or whatever. It’s okay.”

All the tension leaves the agent in a rush of a sigh, those dark eyes dewy with gratitude. You’ve only seen him smile this kind of smile a couple times—lopsided and boyish, a little nervous. He slides his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, well,” he begins again, clears his throat. You can tell he doesn’t do this. You’ve heard of him over the past six months—his interactions with women aren’t exactly built on verbal exchanges. “Guess that takes care of the hard part.”

“What’s the easy part?” you ask him, raising your eyebrows. You could laugh at how stuffed up he suddenly looks, but you don’t, pursing your mouth instead. “Come on, I’m kidding. You wanna come in?”

“Not if—no, I don’t wanna interrupt.” He slides his hands out of his back pockets long enough to gesture with one of them at your state of undress. 

“You won’t be,” you tell him, trying to sound sure of yourself despite your nerves. The circumstances are different. You’re barely dressed. You weren’t prepared for visitors, much less this one. You step back, anyway, holding the door open. It’s not like you’re indecent. “You are letting the cold in, though. Come on.”

Agent Peña, with his uncharacteristic nervousness, slides past you and into the apartment that you’ve made into a little home. You’ve only been to his unit once, probably because it’s not made for entertaining guests—it’s a little minimalist, with just enough comforts to make it habitable, but you prefer yours and you’ve got a suspicion that he does, too.

You shut the door behind him, eyes trailing from his head to his boots. You smell his cologne, which is never strong enough for more than a whiff, and cold leather, and a cigarette he must have smoked hours ago, not very strong, either.

You know you’re being bold when you reach up to grasp the collar of his jacket, and slide it over his shoulders, down his arms and off. You straighten it out and hang it on a hook by the door, beside your coat. When he looks at you, you can’t help wishing your t-shirt was longer, or maybe that you’d put on pants instead of shorts. You must look ridiculous but he doesn’t seem to care—when he looks at you, he looks you in the eye and not at your socks, your shorts, your t-shirt. 

“Coffee?” you ask around a dry throat. You cough. “I mean, I can put some on, if you want.”

“Yeah,” Peña says after a moment. Wringing your fingers together, you watch his throat flex as he swallows. “Coffee’s good.”

While you busy yourself with the coffee, Peña stands there like he’s never been inside your apartment before. You try your best to pretend it’s a comfortable silence, but your confidence wears away quickly. Before you can open your mouth, though, he’s speaking, instead.

“You’ve been good to me,” he says. You hear his weight shifting; get another whiff of his clean-smelling cologne and the heat at the back of your neck burns white-hot.

“I know I’ve put you through a lot. I know it must make you feel like an object or a means to an end, but…”

He’s not looking at you when you pour the coffee, black as pitch, and deliver it quietly to him. The cup looks smaller in his hands and you can’t help but wonder if the way he brushes his fingers against yours when he takes it is purposeful, because everything he does seems purposeful. 

“I don’t feel that way,” you tell him. He watches you, takes a sip of the coffee and sets it down near him to pay attention to you. “I mean, it’s messed up. But you’re keeping me safe. Right? And then you’ll catch these guys and it’ll be over. Everything can go back to normal.”

“I’ll get shipped back to Bogotá,” he says, softly. He grins, delicately thumbing the curve of your chin. “You’ll miss me.”

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll miss our little talks,” you tell him, softer still. 

“Maybe I will, too. You’re not bad company.”

“’Not bad’, huh.”

“Uh huh. Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s high flattery for me, kid.”

You’re not sure how you ended up so close to him. You’re practically pressed together at the chest, and Agent Peña’s hands aren’t even on you, but you’re leaning into him, waiting for something.

Cautiously, he bends his head; he’s holding your jaw. He nuzzles you into a kiss, drops one hand to your waist and urges you closer to him, like he wants to feel you. He coaxes, doesn’t press; lets you lean into him, fingers grasping at his shirtfront. Before you close your eyes you watch his brow furrow deep. Then there’s darkness, and the agent’s scent, the gentlest reminder that he’s wearing cologne on his neck or aftershave on his jaw—you can’t pinpoint it.

It’s a slow start. It surprises you, because you thought you had a bead on him and how he behaves with women. He’s not supposed to be so gentle. He’s not supposed to kiss you like you’re a delicate thing to be treasured. He’s not supposed to free a hand and tuck your falling hair behind your ear and card his fingers through the hair at your nape, and guide your head back, and try his luck at pressing a suckling kiss to the skin beating with your heavy pulse.

You bend your head back and let him have the exposed curve of your throat, curling your hands into fists at his collar. Your response renews him, sees his mouth marking a soft, warm path down the side of your neck and into the curve of your shoulder. You gasp, sliding your fingers up into his hair and holding him in place, letting him suck the color to the surface of your skin.

You curl your fingers into his hair, grip and pull. Feel him gasp against your throat and growl, taking your hips into his hands and squeezing. One of them slides down along your thigh, catches the bend of your knee and hikes it up so that the two of you are standing with staggered legs—his thigh between yours, yours between his. He pulls you against him and the pressure of his thigh against your cunt draws up a sweet little gasp, one of your hands in his hair, the other pressed against his chest. He pulls your hips toward him again and your sock-feet slip on the tile, neck craning up to kiss him again.

It feels desperate, suddenly, too fast. You can feel his breath huffing unsteadily through his nose and his fingers digging into your thighs, almost bruising. He tilts his head, licks his way into your mouth and turns your kiss filthy, slides his hands down beneath your shorts and panties, searching for skin, flesh to grip. When he finds it, he pulls you tight against him, lets you feel how aching-hard he is and you, still holding onto him like your legs might give if you don’t, can’t help the sound that leaves your mouth into his. Indecent, a low and needful sound.

“Sweetheart,” he croons, like he’s just aching with sympathy for you, mouthing soft, wet kisses along your jaw to your earlobe, and down, hungrily down to your shoulder while he rocks your hips against him. You’re practically on tip-toes to grind against his thigh, letting him pull you into it.

“Agent Peña, I think—” you begin, but it’s cut short by a hand under your chin, gripping, but not tightly. He’s kissing you again, slow, sweet, and you melt into it like so much putty.

“You know my name, _querida_ ,” he says. “Use it.”

He guides you back, away from him and off his thigh, walks you backward with his hand under your chin. You follow like you’re being pulled, a puppet on strings, your hands fumbling for his belt.

“Javier,” you say. His buckle chimes like the sound of triumph as you unfasten it, fingers fighting for the button of his jeans as you walk together toward your bedroom, easy to find even by accident from the kitchen—it’s visible from there, a short hall away, and the TV is audible from everywhere.

You’re grinning, tonguing the plump curve of your bottom lip, kissed-pink and wet. He murmurs a soft, encouraging _yeah_ , searching your eyes, entranced by the heady look you’re wearing.

Inside your room, it’s your turn. 

You’ve never really done this before—you’ve done things, but never gone all the way—but you’re not unsure of yourself and anyway, Javi doesn’t need to know that. You press him back against the wall as you wrest his zipper open. You look him in the eye. They’re dewy and dark—a little desperate, maybe, but he’s not a desperate man, is he?

Javier Peña has never been desperate a day in his life, you’re sure of it.

But now he’s grabbing fistfuls of your t-shirt around your waist and holding onto it, bracing his stance and sucking air through his teeth when you get your hands down underneath his boxers and get your hand around his cock, thicker than you’d imagined and so hard that it must ache, it must. It’s uncoordinated; your hands are shaking but so are his when he gets one in your hair, threading rough, callused fingers through it.

He must be waiting for you to get to your knees, because when you do, he breathes out a soft, coarse sound, adjusting his stance again and gingerly cradling the back of your head, hips angled out just enough to show you what he wants. He rucks his shirt up out of the way and you hold onto the backs of his thighs, kissing your way up the length of his cock—skin like silk, hot and smooth, the head of his cock slick and flushed dark.

You take the head of his cock into your mouth and he shivers, fist curling into his shirtfront, fingers twitching at the back of your head. You can’t take it all and he must know that, the way he’s grinning. You take enough to make him gasp, make him croon, “Baby,” just so softly, his thumb brushing at the curve of your ear.

It’s more than enough encouragement. You sit up on your knees and put your hands to work, stroking what the wet heat of your mouth can’t take. It’s sloppy and unpracticed, but Javi bends over you, cradling your head like you’re a precious thing, lifting your chin to guide the pink, wet mess of your mouth into a kiss. 

“Get up. Come here,” he growls, pulls your hands off his cock and guides you to your bed by your wrists, kissing you in quick, playful little snatches of biting affection until your legs hit the edge of your bed. You fall back and push yourself up to the center of the bed, pushing pillows and blankets aside. 

Javi follows, slots himself between your legs and starts to unbutton his shirt. He lets it hang on his shoulders and you find him grinning, sliding his hands down your smooth legs to your ankles.

“What are these?” he asks, teasingly, of your socks, hooking his fingers into them.

“They’re socks,” you tell him, as if he doesn’t know. You prop yourself onto your elbows and watch him, mildly amused. He pulls one sock off, draws your leg up by your ankle and presses his mouth to the inside. His eyes never leave yours. He moves to the other, treating the soft arch of your newly bared foot to a soft, slow kiss.

You reach out to fuss with the hem of his button-down. “Off with this.”

On cue, he shrugs the shirt down his arms and off, tossing it aside. His cock is hot between your legs, heavy over the waistband of his boxers and the V of his zipper. You cant your hips up toward it and he hooks his fingers into the waist of your shorts, your panties. “Off with these,” he hums, sliding them over the curve of your hips, the swell of your thighs.

You feel exposed, of course you do. It feels like it’s been an age since you were naked in front of someone—and even then, you’d only been skinny dipping; it was a dare, and you never backed down from a dare. But Agent Peña takes in the sight of you like a beast luxuriating in a beam of sunlight.

“Baby,” he croons, going to his knees between your thighs, arranging them over his shoulders. Your face feels like it’s on fire, the back of your neck burning. Maybe you’re embarrassed, maybe just the littlest bit, but then Javi is sinking his tongue into the soft heat of your pussy, finding the hooded bud of your clit to delicately seal his lips around, and your hands curl to fists in the bedsheets, your thighs quivering on the agent’s shoulders.

He hums into you. He leans his head against the inside of your thigh and laps your clit up in a full, flat-tongued stroke, those dark eyes finding you over the softness of your belly to watch your eyelids flutter shut and your head fall back in pleasure, your bare throat exposed, your fists wringing in the sheets.

Your legs fall open wider at his gentle urging, and he unseals his mouth from your pussy long enough to take two thick fingers into his mouth, suckle them wet, and stroke them into you. He curls them upward, beckons toward himself, and finds your clit again with the heat of his mouth—all soft lip and the brush of his tongue, and the firm stroke of his fingers.

You could come undone just like this. You almost do. He’s gearing for it, the long, luxurious circling of his tongue around your clit and the firm upward stroke of his fingers working in time with one another, so well that you can’t help the indecent chorus of sounds you create in response, curling your arm over your face to stifle them.

But that just won’t fly, not with him. He releases you and your body folds, crumples like so much soft paper. You exhale with relief, that some of the tension is gone, but somehow it’s worse, now, being built up but not driven over that teetering, jagged edge. Peña takes your hips into his hands and arranges them to his liking, making room to crawl up over you, leaving his denim behind on the floor.

“Look at me, _querida_ ,” he says, softening his voice. You uncover your face at his urging and he smiles, shining a dear little dimple on you. “ _Cosa dulce_. There you are.”

He settles down over you, wraps you up in his arms, warm hands sliding up your t-shirt, lifting it to expose your breasts. His chest against yours, his cock nestling against the seam of your pussy, he’s as close as he can possibly be without being inside you, his hands slipping through the neck of your shirt, sliding it over your head. You lift your arms and the shirt comes off, to be tossed to the floor like everything else.

“Fuck me, Javi,” you say, apropos of nothing. You know he’s going to. You know he will, but you need it, curling your legs around his waist and tightening, pulling him against you. His cock slides against your clit and you gasp into his mouth, fingernails raking pink trails up the agent’s back, into his hair. “Fuck me,” you gasp again, rocking your hips against him, trying for another stroke of his cock against you. “Please.”

You know it’s been a while for him, too. You haven’t heard him fucking through the apartment wall in months and he hasn’t been out late for longer than that. So when he groans, close-mouthed, into your kiss, you know you’ve got him.

“Say my name again,” he says, his voice thick, gruff. He gets to his knees, braces himself with a hand by your head, the other wrapped around the base of his cock.

“Javi,” you whimper on command. “Javi, please.”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me. Please fuck me.”

He sits back on his heels, grips your calf with his free hand and pushes back your leg, stroking the head of his cock down over your clit and pressing right up against you.

“Say it,” he hisses, watching himself sink into you.

“Please. God, please,” is all you can manage before he’s sinking deep, deep into you. He’s big—he feels even bigger than he looks, bigger than he’d felt in your mouth and your hands. There are tears in your eyes, pricking at your eyelashes, but it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t burn and barely stretches—you’re ready for him. But it’s good. His skin is hot, hotter still inside you, and he looses a deep groan as he inches his way inside, all the way until his hips are flush with the backs of your thighs.

Your legs are quivering. His breathing is unsteady. He bends over you with a curse, a fist in your hair. You wrap your legs around him and he grinds into you with an abortive groan, your hands sliding down his back, slick with sweat. 

He grinds into you, doesn’t pull out so much as an inch, too greedy for the heat of your body to give it up for the sake of even a single thrust. He moans something you don’t understand. _Mami, ese coño es tan apretado_. Bites the tender lobe of your ear and hooks his arms underneath your knees to push them back until he’s impossibly deeper and you sob into his neck, clawing at the soft flesh of his sturdy hips. 

“Shhh,” he hushes into your neck, cradles the back of your head and kisses his way up your throat to find your mouth again. You whimper into him, and he grinds himself into you, thick and hot. You’re so full it’s like you’re brimming with his heat, spilling it over the edges. 

He sits back on his heels, gets his hand between your bodies with the hard pad of his thumb gentle on the hood of your clit, stroking in slow, easy circles. When you cover your mouth to cry out into your hands, he reaches up, pulls them away and keeps going. “Let me hear you,” he says, rocking his hips deep into you. “Don’t think about anything else. Don’t worry, baby girl.”

“Javi,” you manage between breaths, rocking your hips against him, keeping time. Nothing else matters, not really, nothing but the slow, viscous pace of his hips grinding against yours, keeping you so full, and the diligent stroke of his thumb on your clit with just enough pressure to make you feel like you’re losing it. And you are. Your back is shivering, your hands are unsteady and you’re practically out of your mind with it—it didn’t take long. “I’m coming. Javi, I’m coming,” you tell him, squeezing your eyes shut against the urgency of it.

“I got you, baby girl,” he coaxes, watching you twist your hands into the bedsheets, watching your back arch, your chest thrust forward. You groan long and low and it’s not hidden into your own skin. “That’s it,” you hear him saying, “that’s it, baby. There you go.”

Your walls collapse around him, muscle clutching at the intrusion of his cock as your orgasm hits, washes over you in wave after wave of shivering bliss. You knock his hand away from your clit and he laces his fingers with yours, instead, steadying your hands, holding them in a tangle of fingers there on your belly.

Your orgasm slows to a dull throb and Javier eases out of you with a soft hiss, stroking the head of his cock twice, three times before he’s coming over your belly, still tensing with your orgasm, four, five hard, throbbing pulses pulling growl after gruff, tight growl from the agent’s clenched teeth.

When it’s mostly done, your brain is such a blank slate that you can’t think of anything to say. Starfished on the bed, only distantly registering that Javier is laughing at you as he stretches out beside you, you blink your way back to full awareness. 

“When are you opening sign-ups for round two?” you ask, your tongue stupidly heavy in your mouth.

“Right now, if you want,” Javi hums, crawling out of bed. He disappears for a moment, maybe a few, and comes back with a warm, wet washcloth. He wipes your belly clean and drops the washcloth somewhere in the floor. He climbs back into your bed and gets his arms around you, somehow manipulating your rubbery-boned body to turn toward him, into his arms, against his chest.

You nuzzle up into his neck, inhaling the scent of him. “Put my name on the list, Agent Peña.”

“Don’t you worry, _nene_. You’re at the top.”


End file.
